


Into the Silent Wood

by sighodinson



Category: Faerie Folklore, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, I dont fucking know - Freeform, also plot twists yall!!!, hey it's ya hoe with yet another series that's gonna die out half way thru, please don't ask me why i'm like this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-12 00:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12947277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sighodinson/pseuds/sighodinson
Summary: Lies dazzle the world, drawing one in so they can marvel at the aspects that only appeal to the eye, planting a memory onto the brain or even imprinting the soul with the dream of perfection. Yet, only few witness the allure draining away, wilting and decaying, the web unraveling quicker than they can ever even attempt to weave it back together again—It’s what happens to all things beautiful.But who would dare to seek out the truth given such an easily believable lie?





	Into the Silent Wood

Mortals are not meant to love - they do not find it easy to. It is not written in the war-torn hearts that they hold within the clawed embrace of horrifying stories of their history.

They do not find the strength in their souls to  _love._

Perhaps it is a curse, perhaps a blessing. But it is a truth that cannot be changed by mere wishes and hopeless dreams.

* * *

**On the banks of the River Lotus**

He rests on the lowest branch of the willow overhanging the river, the sole of his foot grazing the rushing water of the river below. He finds peace in the touch of the warmth of the water, a welcome contrast to the frigid grip of his mother’s touch.

Of course, there is no distaste in his heart for his mother -  _even the Unseelie can love_ \- but there remains a sharp sting in his heart of failure for every disdainful comment thrown his way haphazardly.

There is defeat evident in the darkened eyes of his that have seen eons upon eons of chaos - that  _sometimes,_ he had wreaked. It is fact that he has loved with open arms and a bright smile. It is also fact that he has lost with a heavy heart and a hardened gaze. And yet - his heart is something that flies as free as the very birds that soar the heavens above his head, awaiting the moment of their capture.

He breathes in the clean air, remembering that it is from this very spot from which he had laid eyes on the one that had stolen the very breath from his lungs with nothing more than a simple, curious glance cast almost  _carelessly_  his way.

* * *

**Vale of Westfeld**

The smell of baked earth rises over the marketplace. Merchants, with their tables, heaped high with roasted meat, fresh bread, and pitted dates, shout out, advertising their prices for their goods.

In the courtyard, two men - thick, battle-scarred and  _ugly_ \- face off, spewing curses to irk each other into attacking first. There’s a large crowd gathered around them, scribes struggling to write down everyone’s shouts of their choice of the victor.

You look around, hoping to spot a fallen crust of bread or an apple at the crowd’s feet.

You’d think that someone as hungry as you wouldn’t miss the shine of the gold coins. But those coins could buy you a shelter when it rained. Might allow you to buy a thick cloak made from the fur of a bear - enough to help you survive the winter when the winds cut across your skin like the merciless knives that the King’s Guard wielded.

You’re not really paying attention to the people in the crowd that gathered around them anymore - their coins that hide in their purses are far more interesting.

You find yourself moving towards the crowd at an alarming pace, not even knowing where the strength to move came from. It’s easier to get lost in the labyrinth of waving limbs and screaming voices than you realize - easier still to slip your hands between the confines of cotton doublets to find the cool metal of coins.

Jostling your way out of the crowd, you’ve got a triumphant smile on your lips, casting one last glance back at them before you began to run.

Maybe that was your mistake - running.

For instance, if you’d taken the time to simply examine a vendor’s goods, no one would’ve known you were a thief.

But the hurry to flee was your downfall.

There’s a slight ache in your calves as you speed up, risking a cautious glance back at the now parting crowd - many  _just_  now realizing that their belts felt  _slightly_ lighter.

Choking back your fear at having been caught, you turn back to your path - you’re unable to stop your momentum as you find yourself crashing into the broad chest of a guard, his armor clinking as he stumbled back slightly from the force with which you’d crashed into him.

You find yourself stumbling back, rubbing your head to ease the pinpricks of pain that shot your scalp. There’s a clear fear in your eyes - something that he seems to revel in, adjusting his helmet out of his eyes.

He’s got anger painted into the harsh planes of his face, lips upturned in a sneer of deliberate intent as his hand closes around your arm tugging you upwards harshly to meet his eyes - the coins clink together on the dirt ground as they slide from your sweaty palms.

“Where do you think you’re running off to, street rat?”

The fear built up in your chest, the heavyweight clogging your throat and making it nearly impossible to breathe - you’re unable to answer, much less think with the way that his hand tightens around your arm. Your eyes don’t dare leave him, trying to find a way to twist yourself out of his grasp.

You can’t even find it in yourself to formulate some sort of lie - you’d never expected yourself to be caught in such a position as this.

His eyes are frightening - cold, mismatched - and it only serves to scare you more. Your mouth is dry, words caught in your throat.

At your lack of an answer, his sneer transforms into a triumphant smirk - almost as if he’s glad he gets to order nothing less than an execution.

“I’ll string you up right here and now,” He threatens, “Answer me!”

You give an experimental tug of your arm, hoping - perhaps in vain - that he would’ve loosened his grip, even if it a fraction of an inch.

A growl leaves his lips and for a moment he sounds more animal than man. You wonder - with what little thought remains coherent - if you’ll live to see the sunrise tomorrow.

With the way that he’s looking at you, you doubt it.

Your mouth opens again, almost as if your body has half a mind to react in any way to find a means of escape.

Nothing leaves your lips.

* * *

**On the outskirts of the Silent Wood**

Fae are not meant to care for the lowly matter of the mortals that walk among their wood, hunting for game in the thick of the trees.

And yet, Bucky finds himself strangely intrigued by the loud shouts of the hunting party as they intrude upon his corner of the wood, their bow strings just as taut as their muscles. Save for their loud remarks that scatter in the light breeze, there is little noise.

His attention is immediately captured by the sight of a girl, her hands bound with metal. Despite how tight the cuffs seem to be drawn around her wrists, chafing her skin, not a sound leaves her lips as she looks around their temporary camp, wild eyes scanning every leaf, every branch on the ground as if they would somehow be the solution to her escape. He watches her from his stance on the tree with the utmost curiosity, his eyes glinting in the soft rays of a sun just beginning to rise, painting the sky the color of dried blood -

She doesn’t look to be a part of their group, blood visible on the corner of her lips. She doesn’t move, only watches as two men in her party bent down to the rushing river, cupping their hands in the icy water and bringing it to their lips.

The girl licks her own lips, watching them quench their thirst, her own lips cracked from a lack of hydration. She hesitates for a moment, as if trying to  _think_ for just one moment before she acts - it’s a moment that doesn’t last very long, her motives driven by her need rather than her caution.

She casts one stray glance behind her to the man standing there before her head cracks back harshly, slamming into the nose of the man that had been handling her chains. With a loud cry, he releases her chains, the metal links clinking loudly together as the woman dodges his flailing hands, trying to step away from their party.

She runs towards the river, straight into the path of the two men that had been drinking from it not long ago. Catching her flailing arms, they drag her back, landing a harsh slap on her cheek that  _echoes_ in the empty wood. The woman’s pleas go unheeded as she’s thrown back into the cage that had contained her miles before.

“Don’t you dare take your eyes off the witch,” One of the men warns, his hand not loosening on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He doesn’t notice that his dagger is no longer within his grasp nor the glint of metal in the woman’s hands as she hides them under the worn cloak that decorates her frame.

Bucky cannot help the laughter that bubbles up in his throat.

* * *

**The Silent Wood**

The thorns of scattered bushes scratch at your legs as you run through the wood, daring not to look back at the burning flames of the camp, screams of agony ringing out in the dead of night. Fear fills your every nerve as you stumble through the wood, eyes burning from the smoke that rose in a column above the burning tents, the ink-like tendril a sharp contrast to the white of the snow that decorated the trees above.

The dagger still remains clutched tightly in the embrace of your palm, the sharpened edge of the blade digging into the soft flesh. You’re too in a rush to bother paying attention to the pinpricks of pain.

The loud scream of something that sounds vaguely like an animal pierces the dark sky. You find yourself in more of a hurry than ever, risking a glance back to see if anyone -  _anything_ had followed you from the direction of the fire.

You’re unable to make out anything in the darkness, frightened to your very core of your concealed surroundings. Perhaps it’s a lack of coherent thought or rest but you  _swear_ that the tree’s branches had moved - even with the lack of wind.

“That was a terribly nice trick,” A seemingly disembodied voice rings out. It causes you to spin around - you’re greeted by empty space.

He remains part of the shadows that he has learned to let consume him. And yet, there remains the smallest part of him - the most indistinct of his coherent thoughts - that try to induce him into revealing himself to you, a lowly mortal that wouldn’t  _dare_ cross him.

“Show yourself,” There is a lack of fear in your voice - something that grasps his fleeting respect. The smile that had been playing at his lips widens, eyes filled with intent, perhaps malicious, perhaps  _curious_.

There’s a slight rustle of branches that causes you to immediately raise the dagger - despite not really knowing how to defend yourself with a blade,  _especially_ against an unseen threat.

“Show yourself, dammit!” You freeze almost immediately as the words leave your lips, a burst of cold air falling on your neck. Just as you whip around, the chill vanishes.

“Are you always so unpleasant to strangers?”

Your retort is immediate, “More so to those that I can’t see.”

“Your words wound me.”

“More than my dagger would?”

His laughter is pleasant in the way that it sets fire to your veins - something that at one point, only mead would have been the cause of.

You lower your dagger, the grip loosening on it as you tuck it back into your tunic, “I mean you no harm.”

“Did you truly think you could harm me, little dove?” It’s then that you’re greeted with two shining eyes, filled with amusement as you stumble back in surprise.

“Who are you?” You demand, regaining your balance as your eyes take him in, almost greedily as if they’d  _craved_  such a beautiful sight after spending so long watching drab surroundings.

He stands tall, a smile playing at his lips- there’s almost something  _royal_ about it.

“Who do you want me to be, little dove?”

* * *

**Town Linden**

You’ve taken care to avoid the Silent Wood, taking caution not to find yourself in  _his_ presence again.

Of course, there was a certain curiosity that invaded your senses with every thought of him - that much was a given.

It was a festering sort of doubt, something lurking the crevices of your thoughts, waiting for its chance to ravage.

You’d like to think you’ll never see him again. You’d also like to think you don’t  _want_ to see him again.

Funny thing about hopes? They’re futile. Especially in the face of conflicting desire.

* * *

You’ve stolen from him before, you realize.

You would recognize those eyes  _anywhere,_ those same hues that resembled the ocean after a storm, those same hues that glimmered constantly with unspoken secrets and dreams locked in iron cages so that even  _he_ couldn’t remember them. Those were the same eyes which you’d risked a glance back for, running to escape - those were the same eyes that had brought your capture.

_His_  are the last coins which remain unspent on necessity - they still shine with an unparalleled gleam despite all the grime that covers the gold.

You’ve tried to spend them. You’ve tried everything in your power to forget the fact that no matter how many times you’ve tried to rid yourself of them, they find their way back into your hands. And maybe, your perseverance to get rid of them was more targeted towards getting rid of any trace of Bucky but that was something that perhaps, you weren’t completely ready to admit.

Perhaps you should fear the magic which they hold but you can’t find it in yourself to be anything but lustful of knowledge.

* * *

It’s autumn now, cool breezes blowing to chill even those dressed in cloaks. Leaves have fallen to the ground, leaving wet, decaying mounds of dead matter to get stuck in carriage wheels.

You find yourself spending more and more time in small inns, going from town to town quicker than your captors could possibly hope to catch up.

Looking over your shoulder becomes second nature to you - in the way that most times you find yourself not knowing where you were walking.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when you find yourself in the marketplace, trying to blend in with the townsfolk as if you could  _ever_ be one of them.

They certainly don’t seem to notice a stranger in their presence, all too focused on finding useful wares for the upcoming winter.

And maybe it’s become a habit, but you find yourself wandering haplessly around the marketplace, taking in the colors and sounds of the rushing crowds.

A stall of clothing catches your attention - a small man watches from behind, his back hunched, eyes dark. You gravitate towards him, looking through the goods that he had on display. There’s no one else at the stall.

He watches with terrifying fascination, a scowl playing at his lips as if - from your appearance - he believed you would not have anything to pay. Risking a glance towards him, you offer him a semblance of a smile, wary eyes watching his every move as he shifted - despite the fact that he was no more than an old man, he exuded an air of strength, as if he knew something that you dared not speak of.

Your hands find a pair of thick boots which you knew would be useful for the coming weather.

He doesn’t speak for a moment as your hold out the last of your coins to him -

“You think me fool enough to lay my hands on cursed coin, child?”

* * *

His name is James Buchanan Barnes.

It takes you three nights to find it out, tired eyes scouring over worn pages.

There have been tales of the chaos that he has brought; the storms that he has gathered.

You want to think it’s a myth, passed down from generation to generation, told around raging fires under a black velvet sky of a creature more fearful than the nightmarish monsters children dreamt of - a creature so evil that his cruelty rivaled that of the devil himself.

They say he is a slave to animal instinct, vicious in the way that the mere mention of his name  _should_ make you want to flee in fear.

He’s not real.

At least you want to believe that he’s not.

You know that it’s a lie - you’ve seen him. You’ve seen the harsh planes and sharp angles of his face, you’ve seen the distinct,  _deliberate_ slant of his mouth. You’ve heard his voice, almost aristocratic,  _terribly_  self-assured.

You’ve seen him once and that’s all the confirmation you need to accept that James is inhumanly, dangerously beautiful in the way that a fire is beautiful - from a distance,  _just_ until it burns you.

The tales call him the King of the Shadows. A harbinger of death.

You should fear him.

You do not.

* * *

**The River Lotus**

It is not one of the warmer days that you choose to fish - then again, with winter approaching quickly, you really didn’t have much of a choice.

With your leather shoes tossed to the riverbank, you’re up to your knees in water, wearing just your tunic, watching for moving shadows in the rushing water.

Before you can even think of plunging your hands into the water, attempting to close around the slick body of a fish, you hear a rippling sound. Ignoring it, you huff, refocusing on the hunt.

It’s moments later that  _his_  voice rings out, flowing in perfect symphony with the bubbling river, “How do you expect to catch  _anything_ that way?”

You’d like to say that you hadn’t screamed like a child faced with the prospect of finding out the monsters they dreamed of were real, but unfortunately, that was not the truth.

The surprise of his presence catches you completely off guard, your foot slipping on a rock - you find yourself at a loss of an anchor to hold yourself up, falling into the rushing water, coming up sputtering water.

“You bastard!”

Of course, he takes the insult in a stride, his laughter ringing out.

“Do I really scare you that much, little dove?”

“You lost me my dinner, how else was I expected to react?”

“You never had a chance of catching anything like that.”

“Well, since you seem to know  _everything,_ why don’t you do it for me,  _your highness_.” You mock, completely forgetting the irony in the statement.

“So you  _do_ know who I am?”

You hope that the moment of hesitation before your response goes ignored.

“Yes. You’re the _idiot_  who lost me my dinner.” Your palm makes contact with the surface of the water, splashing it at him harshly as if the water would be able to harm him - you’re only rewarded with a gentle smile.

It’s with those words that you stand from the river, not realizing just how the water would’ve affected your unbleached tunic, the material sticking to your skin.

And maybe, he’s about to splash you back - or fall to his knees and beg forgiveness (you can’t say that you didn’t  _hope_ ) but he does bend down, his hand dipping into the water.

The smile immediately fades from his lips when he looks back up at you.

As much as Bucky tries to avert his eyes, he finds it near impossible to, pupils darkening as his eyes map every curve.

You’re about to taunt him for not actually knowing how to catch fish before you realize  _just_ what had caught his eyes. Your tunic is soaking wet, perfectly transparent in the light of day. He can see, well, almost  _everything._

You’re quick to cover yourself with your arms, looking away with shame burning your cheeks - the admiration doesn’t fade from his eyes as he takes a step forward, the  _emotion_ in his eyes so intense that you suddenly can’t move.

His hands glide up your arms, coming to rest on your shoulders.

Bucky’s chest rises and falls almost  _heavily_ as if he’s having trouble breathing. In so many eons of living, he can’t remember a time where he’s found himself unable to speak, much less  _think,_ around another person.

But the way that you’re looking at him, with water dripping from your hair onto his shoulders - he feels as if he’s never been more  _alive._

And then he’s leaning in, lips parting  _just_ slightly but it’s enough to send a shiver through you. He’s close to you, so close that you can smell the lingering scent of cinnamon on his skin, so close that you can feel his cool breath, so close that his lips touch yours.

It’s gentle. If anything it’s gentle.

His hands come up to cup your face, lips pressing ever so close to yours.

You find yourself clinging to him, hands dropping from your body to clutch at his back.

_How is this happening?_

_He’s not human._

_He’s dangerous._

With a shaky breath, you’re the first to pull away, stumbling back -

“I have to go.”

* * *

**The Silent Wood**

There is a constant reminder of his touch in the corners of your mind - you’d like to forget but you can’t find it in yourself to think of anything but him.

It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise to you when you find yourself wandering around the market  _again_ , searching - almost blindly - for the same merchant whose eyes had twinkled with mischief having taken nothing but a simple glance at the shining coins you had held out to him not days ago.

You’ve got little luck, now utterly hopeless now as you looked wildly around. He was nowhere to be seen, the small space where his stall had been left empty as people milled around it.

You don’t realize that you tread away from the marketplace, much too focused on your mission to find the man.

Though there is doubt in your heart that he might have run, there is no proof to support any reason why he might have vanished - and so quick too.

It’s midday by the time that you realize you’re no longer in town and if anything - you’re  _utterly_ lost.

Looking at the ground, you find that there was no  _path_  - the ground is decorated with scattered bushes and branches, not even a trace of your own steps visible for you to even  _attempt_ to follow.

The loud croak of a crow fills the silent air, the rustle of its feathers following. It doesn’t help your building panic, causing you to whip around immediately, trying to find the bird.

There hadn’t been any sign of life anywhere when you’d first come here but now, you began to question if you might have been better off that way.

A slight chill begins to form in the air, a delicate layer of frost begins to form, leading from a yew tree. You find yourself entranced by the quick forming ice - something in you  _knows_ with a near crippling certainty that it would  _burn_ were you to reach out and touch it.

The air smells of blood - you’re not quite sure how you know but what conscious thought still remains sane tells you to run.

“Is there something you desire from me, child? You’ve come a terribly long way if you’re just here to talk.”

Your eyes immediately snap to the source of the voice, the same condescending tone that rejected your,  _no_ , Bucky’s coin.

He’s got a smirk pulling at his lips, the sharp tips of his incisors visible against the pink of his mouth. And even though he is an old man, even though he  _seems,_ he  _looks_ like an old man, you find your heart fluttering in your chest - like a caged bird trying to flee.

You surprise yourself in realizing you still have  _some_ control over your voice, “I have something of yours… I know what - what you are.”

His smile tugs into something  _feral,_ his laugh electrifying as it washes over you _-_

It’s scary how fast the fae can move.


End file.
